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by Celtic_Knot



Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Coping, Emotional Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celtic_Knot/pseuds/Celtic_Knot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s not Saitou, and he’s not made of permanent ink. He doesn’t draw on everything he touches, but Saitou reminds him how there is something remarkable about slipping names and words onto paper. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Saitou is the first nice surprise he's had in awhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightningwaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Hakuouki, nor did I in any way contribute to its creation. All rights go to their respective owners.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Emotional sex, hurt/comfort, thoughts on death, emotional baggage
> 
> So I've had this fic in my head for a while, and I wanted to be sure to finish it on lightningwaltz's birthday <3 
> 
> This is only my second time writing from Shinpachi's POV so fingers crossed. XD It was definitely fun though! 
> 
> Post-Canon: Uses the second movie and the Normal route from the game

* * *

 

Never before has he felt the urge to both slam the door in someone’s face and drag them inside in the same instant. The arrival brings so many things to his doorstep. It’s enough to punch him in the gut with _no no no_ and to prickle his throat with a couple hundred different ways to press incredible happiness into _thank you_.

Saitou is always welcome, he’s tempted to pull him into a hug or something, crush him against his chest until he’s absolutely sure he’s here and alive. Saitou brings relief and amazement, and Shinpachi is nearly dizzy with being confronted by a living breathing Saitou when he’d heard he was gone. It’s one hell of a joy to see Saitou.

But the satchel he carries with him… Well, Shinpachi is suspicious of it. Shapes of objects strain against fabric, but strain harder against the lines of Saitou’s face.

They’ve carried a few things through the war, least of all themselves.

It’s only been over for such a short time, but Shinpachi wonders how long ago it had really been over. How many months ago it was written that they would lose. Battles aren’t so bad to lose. He never thought he’d say that, but everything else that’s been destroyed piles ashes and bones and blood on the opposite side of the scale. It’s no contest at all.

But not all the guys are gone. Not quite, not like he thought. It’s one hell of surprise to see Saitou. He had heard things… Promises of death and no survivors, all sorts of epilogues on people turned into history. He hadn’t accepted all that yet, but he’d accepted he would have to try to swallow it all. Not now. It’s not over for at least one person who's like him. Someone who's stuck straddling the line between two eras, where time is such a bitch that the gap just seems to spread wider and wider. How much farther can they span?

It’s rude to stand here staring at Saitou, isn’t it? Yeah, it is. He could never turn him away.

“Come on in,” He steps aside, but probably doesn’t leave quite as much room as would be polite. His throat is still tying itself around relief and disbelief. Saitou is alive. He’s alive. Alive.

“Thank you.” Saitou follows him into the house he’s borrowing from a friend.

There’s always been a silence about the way Saitou moves. Quiet, calculated, careful. It’s still mostly that, but more, less? Saitou’s feet are heavier than he remembers. They don’t manage to lift themselves as far off the tatami. That’s ok. Shinpachi knows the feeling. Getting up is difficult when everything that told you tomorrow would be worth it isn’t around anymore. He wonders if Saitou is wounded. He must have been, he might be still. But he’d never show it, he’s Saitou. Shinpachi’s vision swims a bit, and his stomach is somewhere between nauseated and ecstatic. He would blame it on alcohol, but today is the first evening in a while that he’s completely sober.

Sake never made him feel so infinitely old. So many years gone by in months that he has lived long enough to loop back around the loneliness of fucking child.

Saitou doesn’t thrust that feeling on him either. It’s not Saitou, god it’s not. He’s a blessing. Shinpachi should tell him that, but maybe he’s a bit too bitter to say it. Too angry still that some lives were chosen to continue while others ended and then ended again. History is funny like that.

But the two of them, they’re continuing.

It’s not their fault they survived. There’s nothing wrong with surviving. Still, there’s a somberness hanging in the folds of Saitou’s uniform that tells him he’s not here free of gunpowder and tragedies. He’s fucking sick of tragedies. But never of Saitou. It’s hard to look at him, but he doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He has always remembered Saitou as the picture of stability. He still is now, albeit a little more haggard, but Saitou is the kind of person who wears hardship with an enviable grace.

They sit across from each other, only a small table separating them. Saitou is stiff, his body takes up all sorts of strange knots and tight lines. Saitou carries himself with a certain firmness, but this is more than firm. It’s a shield, a brace.

“You survived, huh? Hadn’t heard anything about you getting away.” Speaking is hard, but he does an ok job. Most of the rasp is hiding behind a normal rumble. If amazement, or a touch of reverence slips in Saitou doesn’t call him on it.

“I did. In a sense.” It’s a very Saitou answer. Straight forward, but not. Saitou watches him for any sign of understanding. He’s also looking for something more. Maybe he can see the same menagerie of broken things Shinpachi sees in the mirror. Saitou’s shoulders look dusted with shattered tomorrows too. “I had to resort to certain measures.”

_Ochimizu._

It makes sense. Sort of. Saitou would do anything for their cause, his loyalty is frighteningly steadfast. Humanity isn’t as dear to Saitou as fulfilling their truth. Shinpachi could never bring himself to take it, but if that’s what Saitou chose for himself then there’s no room for him to argue.

It’s a little late anyway.

That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been able to drink today. So much change over these past few days that it must be eating holes in his gut. Saitou isn’t human anymore. Saitou who never changes, is different. But he’s not. Shinpachi will argue that until his voice is scraped out of his throat for good. Saitou chose it. Saitou picked his beliefs.

And Saitou’s beliefs are as strong as any of Shinpachi’s own. They’ve always respected each other for that. So while he wants to punch Saitou in the face, to slam him around until the ochimizu runs out of him… He won’t. It would be impossible. Saitou internalized more than poison. A choice. The kind he can’t retract.

“Oh. You did-” What can he say? _Damn it, Saitou? Why? Are you ok?_ None of them fit quite right.

Nothing he can scrounge together will help Saitou loosen his fingers from each other. His fingers aren’t nimble enough to untie the knot of everything he sees binding Saitou up. Honesty might do something. Saitou likes honesty. “I’m really glad you’re alive, anyway.”

“I was also relieved to hear of your survival. However-” His fingers tap against his knuckles in a count of three before he can swallow. Saitou has been fighting a long time now, watching him fight with himself is so unfair. They were never promised fair. “That is not the only reason I’m here.”

 _Fuck._ Shinpachi knows. He has known unwillingly from the moment he saw Saitou at the door. Knowing isn’t the same as hearing. If Saitou says it, it’s assured. No _maybe…_ If Saitou stays silent he can wait and wait and wait. Nobody has guaranteed him anything. Saitou’s exhaustion promises everything he feared. But Saitou hasn’t spoken yet, and Shinpachi can’t predetermined words. So…

“Yeah, so what else?” Asking jabs his tongue full of pins.

“You understand the battle at Aizu went poorly.” It’s not like Saitou to hesitate, but he’s trying to do Shinpachi and himself a kindness. To allow them a moment to prepare for whatever news he carried with him. In his body and in that damn satchel that looks more like shreds of old uniforms tied together.

Shinpachi isn’t an idiot. He knows who was at that battle with Saitou. He knows the shapes he sees concealed by fabric. It’s all in plain sight, too late to close his eyes now. As if he could. What the hell good would it do? So what if his skin tingles like it wants to peel away from his body? And maybe his tongue would rather be cut out than say what it’s about to, but he’ll use force. It’s hardly the first time he’s had to.

“Heisuke’s gone isn’t he?” One punch to something vital.

“Yes. And Souji too.” The second he wasn’t expecting. Surprise doesn’t make it hurt less or more. Everything is a mess, nothing and everything is blindsiding him. How Saitou’s voice didn’t shake is a small miracle. Respect for those friends he just sealed the fate of Shinpachi supposes. They’re really gone. Because Saitou said so.

He does punch something now. The ground, the table. They don’t scream or yelp like an injured person would, he can’t find satisfaction in the sting to his knuckles.

Shinpachi didn’t see them die, but their deaths crash into every bone in his body. His ribs try to comfort his lungs with a hug, but all it does is squeeze his breath away. Last moments tear through his veins, and he wonders if he can die from the bleed it must cause. Probably not. He hasn’t died yet. Biting his fist is a cheap attempt at blocking a sob. It’s never over, the grief that keeps finding him after white flags were raised. Heisuke. Dead. Souji too.

Saitou sits with his head bowed, Shinpachi thinks his shoulders might be trembling. Barely noticeable. It’s hard to say for certain when his headband must be the only thing holding his head together at this point. Saitou has been alone with their friends’ ends for however long it took him to find Shinpachi. Ghosts don’t make good traveling companions. They don’t make bad jokes like Souji, or chatter on about life and sunlight like Heisuke. No. They’d walked beside Saitou, probably whispering the whole way what was lost. It’s cruel to drag Saitou through it, but he has to know.

“How? Did you see it?” _Were they alone?_

Even Sano had had Shiranui. For as much horrific responsibility as comes with being there at the end, Souji and Heisuke deserved to not pass by themselves. They deserved to be held and told they matter. War doesn’t love them, but their friends do. Shinpachi hadn’t been there for any of their comrades. Fucking useless. But maybe Saitou had been able to do something, say anything to make it easier on them. As if you can make dying easy. For all the wounds he’s gained from their lost friends, he thinks Sano’s attempt at _seppuku_ might open on his stomach any second now.

“They ran out of time.” It takes Saitou a second to gather his thoughts further. To place words with memories that are probably all jumbled up by cannons and guns and red eyes. Saitou reaches for his bag, and pulls it onto his lap. He’s nearly cradling it in an odd sort of way. His eyes soften when his fingers trace along lines and edges. It’s as close as Shinpachi thinks Saitou can come to literally hugging memories.

“I held Heisuke as he passed. He was smiling at the end.” Saitou shuts his eyes and Shinpachi can nearly see what must be behind his eyelids.

A body so alive, so full of everything that made him Heisuke. Slumping and turning to ash, because Heisuke didn’t even get to die like a normal human. Saitou got an arm full of ashes, nothing to hold onto. Heisuke probably ran through his fingers, slid out of his arms, maybe even got in Saitou’s eyes.

Shinpachi is cut up. He’s grateful that Heisuke had had Saitou there to send him off. But he’s angry, and sick, and there aren’t even words he knows of that can vent the crippling snaps busting up his chest.

“And Souji?” He’s a glutton for punishment. But he couldn’t help them. Maybe he can help Saitou. Sharing is supposed to make things hurt less, right?

Souji’s name is on Saitou’s lips, along with a few other words that don’t get voice. Or maybe they’re all Souji’s name. Just different tones, different speeds. It’s guts him, but it’s almost beautiful in a way, watching Saitou tug all of Souji from where he’s been keeping him to tell Shinpachi what happened.

“Souji arrived by surprised. He protected me from a rasetsu before proceeding to join the battle.” If Saitou starts to look a little green under the shadows around his eyes Shinpachi won’t mention it. He won’t point out that Saitou’s voice curls into more emotions than he’s ever heard from Saitou at one time, “He died while I was looking the other way. When I turned to speak to him there was just ash and his sword.”

So Souji wasn’t as lucky as Heisuke. If you can call that luck. It hurts Saitou, not having been able to do more for Souji, to not have been able bear witness. Shinpachi understands, fucking hell he wishes he didn’t, but he does. He’s still not capable of placing the regret of Sano’s death into any vessel that doesn’t smash up into shards whenever he thinks of him. He thinks of him everyday. And now add Souji and Heisuke. There’s so much he would have wanted to say to both of them, to do with both of them. And if he couldn’t have that, at least he would have wanted to say goodbye. Saitou had Souji _right there_ and still never got the chance.

Grief is at it’s most vicious when you’re idle. That bag of Saitou’s…Shinpachi watches as Saitou opens it carefully, reverently. His fingers are reminding themselves how precious its contents is. It’s everything he didn’t want to see. He needs to see it. There’s a low scrape of scabbard on scabbard when Saitou pulls out two swords. One Souji’s, the other Heisuke’s. The sounds of their blades are so familiar, but their swords don’t sound _quite_ the same in Saitou’s hands.

Saitou had carried Souji and Heisuke here on his back.

He deserves more thanks than anyone could fathom for that. The weight must have been tremendous. Saitou is strong beyond belief. He doesn’t look it now. From the moment he passed through the door he has worn all the mourning that isn’t permitted on a battlefield. The rules of war are made by humans, but not for humans. Damn idiots, all of them.

Shinpachi doesn’t even realize his hand is reaching out for Heisuke’s sword until Saitou hands it over. The grip is meant for hands a bit smaller than his. It’s not warm anymore, Shinpachi pretends it is. Heisuke held it for so many years, the short time he’s been dead isn’t enough to cool his presence. It can’t be. Shinpachi can feel Saitou’s eyes on him, but Saitou won’t judge him. So what if he wants to run his fingers along every inch of what’s left of Heisuke?

Every centimeter makes Heisuke’s image clearer in his mind. The tighter he curls his fingers around it the more colors are added, the more life is added. Heisuke can’t speak anymore, but he’s speaking to Shinpachi through the coldness of his lonely weapon. By the time he works his way back to the grip he can hear Heisuke laughing in his ear. _Why so sad Shinpattsuan?_

Damn it.

“There is this too. I couldn’t leave it.” Saitou has Souji’s sword across his lap, but he passes a bundle to Shinpachi. Heisuke’s clothes, his uniform.

The sword is Heisuke as warrior, as his ideals. The clothes are him as a person. It’s stupid, but he’s a bit jealous that this linen and these buttons were there for Heisuke when he wasn’t. It’s too late for that though, so he clutches Heisuke’s clothes. If his fingers could bury themselves any deeper in every single thread they would. But they can’t.

He can only get so close. There are blood stains, dried out, but still there. Still there. When he buries his face in the cloth he can feel it. The grit of ashes still in the clothes. The wind took most of him, but some of Heisuke has hung around in those fibers to be held by Saitou and now Shinpachi.

Heisuke has always been so thoughtful of his friends, brat.

He ruffles the back of the vest, and nearly chokes on the way it feels nothing like hair. Choking turns into gagging. If his stomach wasn’t empty he might throw up.

Saitou looks up, “Are you ok?”

“I don’t know.” He can’t be anything but honest.

“I am sorry. I also heard about Sanosuke.” Neither of them had been there for Sano. Saitou’s regret laces all around, starting in his voice and finishing in Shinpachi’s skin.

Talking about this is hard. Both their voices kick their throats, and they don’t sound like themselves. Not really. But it’s all they can do. Talk and share and exist.

“Don’t be sorry. You brought them home.” It’s not Saitou’s fault, but somehow Saitou once again got stuck with the messy job. Getting himself through that battle, collecting Heisuke and Souji. There’s probably dirt and blood under his nails that won’t ever come clean.

“Not alive.” A single detail that refines _everything_ about what home is. When Saitou’s eyes slide shut Shinpachi has to fight the urge to leap across the table and open them. His brain is latching onto reds in the sunset outside and turning them into bloody rays of rain. It applies the same logic to Saitou. Losing sight of Saitou’s eyes even for a moment grabs onto him with fingers that clench and then go slack. Not Saitou too.

Then they’re back, the slivers of life that ring Saitou’s gaze. There’s motion in Saitou’s chest, a gentle rise and fall. His hair moves when he turns his head slightly, it’s not quite long enough anymore to brush across where his pulse is still beating.

Shinpachi’s stomach climbs out of his throat to make room words.

“You did your best. I wasn’t even there for Sano.” He hasn’t gotten to say a single goodbye. Sano died a great warrior, and a better man. That’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. How it is supposed to do anything but garrote him? Sano broke a promise to meet up with him. But Shinpachi let a greater commitment slide through his fingers. Sano’s dead, and he’s alive. Sano’s dead, and he wasn’t fighting beside him. Sano’s dead, and he has nothing but a spear.

The spear he keeps next to where he sleeps. He’ll probably put Heisuke’s things there too. Heisuke and Sano can rest together.

There’s no rest for him and Saitou.

“Sanosuke would simply be grateful you’re alive. You must know that.” There’s a pacing to Saitou’s words that assures their actuality. Each one hits as naturally as rain, but so much more precise, dropping everywhere where he’s dying of thirst. Saitou shouldn’t give away something so necessary for survival. But he does. And Shinpachi accepts. Maybe it’s selfish, but Saitou’s palms have turned upwards and he needs to give. Who’s he to deny that?

“Yeah, that bastard.” Staring into a bright light is supposed to help staunch tears. It just gives him a headache. It might be melting his thoughts together, letting them slide and drip through any sense of discretion

“Souji didn’t die in bed. He must’ve been glad.” It sounds awful the moment he speaks it. So awful that it claps over his ears with hands full of broken glass. At the same time it’s true. Souji was a shitty patient, but brilliant on the battlefield. Saitou might not be here had Souji not dragged himself to Aizu. Souji’s ashes and blood had cauterized Saitou’s wounds quicker than the ochimizu. Shinpachi’s sure of it.

“Souji was Souji.” There are hooks in those words. Little ones he wouldn’t be able to see if not for the unshed tears serving as magnifying glasses. Those hooks pull back Saitou, layer by layer. He should look away. It would be polite. Shinpachi’s never really been praised for politeness.

He’s a decent observer though, and Saitou is a study of moments. Ink dropped from snow and storm clouds into a person capable of surviving over and over again. It’s a bit of reverse now. That same ink sweats up on Saitou’s skin and it runs. Runs back towards clouds, and down Saitou’s fingers to Souji’s sword.

Shinpachi wants to toss paper at Saitou to see what marks appear when it sticks. Could he read it? Or is Saitou a language of his own?

He has a feeling Souji was pretty fucking fluent in Saitou.

When Saitou runs his fingers along Souji’s sword, it’s not a sword. Shinpachi knows how you hold a sword, how you hold it and swing it. The amount of pressure you use to squeeze strength and death through metal. He’s sure he knows how to handle steel. He knows the kind of treatment a blade prefers to know it’s a weapon.

It’s different when Saitou holds onto Souji’s sword. The way he touches it tickles the back of Shinpachi’s neck. The moment is private. Saitou’s thumb circles the scabbard with a tenderness that spins a fervent stream of whispered intimacy. The expression on his face is the kind you hear about, the kind they had all laughed about when Hijikata’s haiku tried to capture it. Saitou holds it beautifully. It’s that ink again. Dripping from Saitou’s eyes, writing things for Souji down his cheeks, across his collar bones, probably every inch of him. The way the sword lays in Saitou’s arms, it knows it’s a body to be embraced. Shinpachi wouldn't be surprised if Souji grew from that sword, blade forming his spine and everything else growing out from what Saitou puts in.

It’s stupid, he might be drunk. He’s not drunk. He almost wishes he was, then he’d have an excuse for the spinning his head does and the sloshing his stomach tries to dunk his heart in.

“So you and Souji huh?” It’s none of his business. But seeing Saitou draped in Souji dyes him colors Shinpachi didn’t know existed. Saitou had worn Hijikata-san’s goals for so long, it was always a nice shade for him, these designs of Souji’s are new to Shinpachi. But doesn’t seem like they are to Saitou. Maybe Souji’s silk has been there longer than he can guess. Under Saitou’s skin, and he’s only seeing it now because the outermost layer of Saitou is broken back into its liquid state.

He thinks Saitou would probably look good in anything he chooses to carry.

Saitou stares at him. He doesn’t look angry, but there are too many moving parts to catch anything for certain. “Souji and I were Souji and I.”

It’s as close as he’ll get to an admission of any sort. Shinpachi understands some memories are too dear to expose to the same air that ages so many things into dust. Saitou and Souji wouldn’t be the kind to set any hard and fast outline on _them_ anyway. Saitou probably doesn’t have a more specific answer to give.

“You guys were something else.” Again his mouth moves quicker than his mind, spurred on by that first sparring match he saw them meet in.

Saitou’s tiny smile snags his attention. He wants more, he wants that smile too. The bone aching fondness strong enough dam up the downpour of everything else. Happiness reminds him of someone else who deserves it.

“Oh! Did you see Chizuru-chan yet?” She survived too. Small blessing, or in this case huge blessing. Even greater yet that he’d been allowed to see her alive after hearing Hijikata-san didn’t make it. If she had died with him, Shinpachi doesn’t think she would have regretted it. But there is something about Chizuru surviving that convinces him that life can only take so many good people at once, like if it took too many the sun wouldn’t have anything left to light itself with. Chizuru is so so good, and she knows everything they lost.

“I haven’t.” Saitou might be surprised, but it’s first good surprise he’s probably heard. If Shinpachi gives him nothing else, having told him that was a good deed. It takes out some of the spines of iron and steel that Saitou had pierced himself with to make armor. There’s one less agony to guard himself from, “Is she well?”

The question is so much more than what it says.

Shinpachi shrugs, “She’s not hurt or anything. But she was there when Hijikata-san... And she has a banner you might want to see. She’d be happy to see you, you know. We didn’t heard any good news from Aizu so we assumed the worst.”

It’s the longest string of words he’s managed since Saitou got here. Chizuru has always lended them a certain sort of strength.

“I would like to see her, too.” Hijikata-san wasn’t a surprise. Saitou must’ve heard how he died. That probably hurts Saitou more than he’s letting on. Hijikata-san had been many things for Saitou, a gateway to gateway to acceptance, a worthy wielder for the kind of blade only Saitou could be. “Is she safe?”

Safe and alive aren’t the same things. God damn are they not.

“Yeah, she’s been taking patients in at the inn in town.” He smiles to himself, but it’s not exactly happy. _Happy_ isn’t exactly tangible right now, but the muscles in his face do know Chizuru and her desire to help others. “I should let her come stay here, but it might seem strange.”

“She will need a more permanent living arrangement.” Saiout tilts his head a little. Thoughtful Saitou usually gets things done. But this isn’t a simple solution to work out. Her home with her father isn’t really a home a home anymore. Not after what she saw and heard. Not after what Kodo did.

Here would be fine. But a woman living alone with a man she’s not married to isn’t so easily explained.

Shinpachi doesn’t care if people talk, but she doesn’t need that. Still, he’s tempted. Maybe he could keep her and Saitou here. That would be nice. Chizuru understands them. She knows all the guys’ favorite foods, when their birthdays were, what they liked to do when they weren’t busy. She looked after Hijikata-san, took care of Souji, laughed with Sano and Heisuke.

And Saitou. Now that he him here, he doesn’t want to let him go. Not after he watched the backs of each of his friends and never got to see them again. His luck can’t be trusted. Not to mention Saitou is a rasetsu now, he can’t be alone. If he has an attack, if he just poofs into ash with no warning… Nope no way. Saitou’s not going anywhere he can’t follow. Saitou right here in front him, kneeling kneeling on that old cushion is perfect. He looks like he’s always been there.

Saitou is adaptable. He can take on the style of the art on the walls, or the sounds of the wind in the windows. But he’s still always Saitou. Shifting but never reshaping. Nothing integral is damaged in the switching, but Saitou knows how to wear several masks from materials all around.

“I’ll take you to see her whenever you want.” Their little family is reduced to three.

Funny now Shinpachi always ends up in a trio. This trio would definitely have the Baka Trio’s blessing. Heisuke respected and cared for Saitou, and Shinpachi’s pretty sure he loved Chizuru. And Sano was a friend and comrade to both of them. If Shinpachi has to lose his original triangle, Saitou and Chizuru are the best he’ll ever have to lean on for support. Maybe that’s why he likes groups of three, the shape of it provides a sturdy structure. When one point is weak the other two bear the load until healing can occur. When all points are weak they can lean into each other and nobody falls down.

“Thank you.” There’s really nothing for Saitou to be grateful to him for. He nods anyway.

“Anything I can do.” It’s only been an hour or two if the shadows crawling across the table aren’t liars. Two hours but Saitou’s skin looks a bit grayer, a little closer to grains. And it terrifies him. Keep him talking, keep him breathing, do not let him reach his hands out to the blue flames that licked up Souji and Heisuke. “Hey Saitou, now that’s it’s over, it didn’t turn out like we’d hoped huh?”

 _We._ If he can keep the guys in the room, Saitou won’t walk out.

“No, but that was always the risk.” Risks are accepted actively and passively in every moment since they choose this life. Saitou’s hand rests on the table, but his fingers stretch and curl around an invisible blade. Old habits will never die. “We knew that.”

“But we never expected this.” Shinpachi’s worst case scenario had them _all_ dead. This is harder.

“No.” Souji’s sword hums something under the movement of Saitou’s nails across its scabbard. “I didn’t intend to outlive the vice commander.”

This is the closest to ashamed he’s ever heard Saitou, but even now it’s still more like devastated disbelief than anything.

“Hijikata-san would be proud. You’re a survivor.” It’s probably a bad idea to reach out and put his hand over the Saitou’s. There are boundaries you don’t push without asking, but warm skin is too tempting. Saitou’s callouses are too much of a comfort to ignore.

“Hijikata-san provided me with a place and comrades to trust.” He takes a deep breath, “I found a purpose in him and his goals that I wished to uphold. Even when we parted I intended to follow the same beliefs that had lead me to the Shinsengumi until I died.”

“But everyone except for me and you died instead.” Laughing is out of place, but totally in place. Saitou hasn’t pulled his hand away from Shinpachi’s and that’s something. They both know what kind of bruises broken plans leave when they drop into your skin. They both know what degree of burns are left by the selectivity of _until the end._

“I was prepared to die.” His fingers twitch in Shinpachi’s while he frowns, “I was prepared to watch numerous deaths, but not Souji’s and Heisuke’s.”

“We always tell ourselves we’re ready, no one ever is.” His knee strikes the bottom of the table when he moves to stretch out a bit. Being abused by the furniture is such a dull ache he doesn’t even notice. Shinpachi is no stranger to unidentified bruises and scrapes.

“Sano was supposed to meet up with me. When he didn’t make it I think I knew. But Shiranui came by with his spear and-” _It was final._ Talk about bruises. The internal bleed wasn’t enough. The screaming and cursing and throwing he had done broke many things, but nothing broke into the right shaped pieces he needed. “I got in so many fights. Just because I couldn’t believe Sano fought without me and died. I never got as lucky as him. I kept winning.”

“Your actions are understandable, however I’m relieved you were unsuccessful in finding what Sanosuke did.” Nobody wants to be alone. If Saitou trekked all the way here and found nothing, then what?

“I shouldn’t have looked away from Souji. I knew he didn’t have much left.” Saitou’s back bends, spine cupping those days he’s had to relive Souji one instant and no Souji the next.

Shinpachi remembers reading a translation of a foreign story where a man had the chance to save his lover from the underworld if he _didn’t look back_. But Saitou had looked _away_ , and in that moment Souji lost his life. It’s the reverse. If Saitou hadn’t taken his eyes off of him, maybe Souji wouldn’t have fell into ashes and death. Maybe he would have stayed as long as someone was ready to witness his death. Don’t take look away, and nobody will take him.

It doesn’t work that way. Stories aren’t real life, they’re vibrant pieces of it. But Souji would have gone in that moment whether he was entirely alone or in Saitou’s arms. It’s not Saitou’s fault.

“I don’t think Souji would care you missed his death. You got to see his last fight.” Saitou and Souji said so much with their swords, and Souji never cared about _not dying,_ so Shinpachi has no doubt he said plenty to Saitou by joining that battle. Maybe not as much as either of them would have liked, but Souji made a choice to go and fight. _He chose his death._ That’s something so very like Souji.

“He was certainly pleased with himself and his surprise.” There’s a type of unrestrained fondness in the way Saitou says it. Each ache on Saitou is present, but the pain is worth it. Saitou shakes his head, and it must rock all sorts of other memories free. Shinpachi watches his lips twitch a little.

“And really, thank you. For Heisuke. When Sano and I left the Shinsengumi, saying goodbye to him was rough but I think I always assumed I’d see him again.” Assumptions have always gotten in him in trouble. This one was especially costly and Heisuke isn’t around to ask for forgiveness.

Saitou squeezes his hand, his nails string a bit. Shinpachi doesn’t care if Saitou wants to pinch all the way down to the bone. The curves of Saitou’s nails permanently in the back of his hand wouldn't be so bad. Things that don’t fade are nice. If his blood flowed over and around Saitou shaped dents, that would be fine.

“I was proud to fight beside him. He didn’t have much time, but I am grateful I could be there.” A tremendous compliment from Saitou. All their comrades are deserving of honor and respect that few people will offer them. So Shinpachi and Saitou and Chizuru have to hold them all away from where the victors’ bookworms wait.

Saitou himself is a reminder. The conversation they just had is powerful. _Don’t forget, don’t forget. As long as you remember they’re dead not gone._ There’s a difference. That difference is entirely dependent on them and Chizuru. The pressure is somewhat outrageous, kind of unfair too. It stings that every time he listens for Saitou’s breath he also hears several other breaths that don’t move any air anymore. They just move them, blow them forward, always forward because they don’t have a choice except to be bullied by time.

It’s ridiculous that every time he picks up something to read he waits to see anyone of _their_ names in it, but then he realizes they haven’t been gone long enough. They’ll stayed buried until a safe enough distance is reached to pull out their deeds, their opposition to progress, whatever history decides they fit as. Saitou and Shinpachi might be gone by then. Not around to tell them how wrong they are, how much they leave stranded between lines. How much they didn’t know those guys, and so they should keep their damn mouths shut and leave it to those who did… Chizuru might survive long enough to see those future days, how long do demons live anyway?  
Part of him wishes her a long long time, and the other half hopes it isn’t _too_ long because that sounds lonely as hell given what he’s learned about time.

It’s infuriated to have lived it all, and to keep living when nothing his hands can touch is capable of rebuilding any of them. He can write, and he can talk Saitou and Chizuru’s ears off, but his fingers can’t fashion memories back into reality. It just doesn’t work. His body has fought and surged toward survival but it failed to do the same for any of the others. Too slow, too weak, too far away.

It’s not the first time his thoughts have grabbed details from outside and inside and mashed them into the kind of picture that’s a horrifying distortion and also somewhat stunning. Pain solidifies existence, and former existences. But the image is cringeworthy, and he’s sick of looking at it. He’s sick of seeing dead, and gone, and fire, and-

He hits a dead end as soon as Saitou grabs him. When had Saitou even rounded the table? He’s not sure. He is sure that the force Saitou uses is leaving marks. His fingers are trying to meet each other right through the muscle and bone of Shinpachi’s shoulders. Shinpachi would be ok with that. There are worse things than Saitou to have clawing into him. Honestly, it’s nice. Intensity reminds him of battle, reminds him of vigor and life. The harder Saitou holds the more adrenaline bleeds into his system. It’s different, the expression on Saitou’s face. He’s not exactly open, but not sealed off like when he faces an enemy. He’s daring Shinpachi to step off the cliff with him.

Shinpachi won’t drag Saitou down, but he’ll bring him in.

His hands grab Saitou’s biceps and yank until Saitou lets himself bang up against Shinpachi’s chest. There’s nothing particularly soft about either of them. Sharp angles hit into sturdy plains. Where it isn’t muscle, it’s bone. He’s not really capable of deciphering all of the reasons _why_ but he needs Saitou right here where he can feel Saitou’s heart and bury his face in the crook of his neck. It’s all life. The smell of dirt, sweat, blood, and Saitou himself. He’s outside and inside, everything alive. He missed so many of their deaths, but he’s here for Saitou’s life. That’s something, right?

Saitou seems to think so. He allows it, he initiated it.

Shinpachi wraps his arms around Saitou and squeezes until ribs are probably leaning lines one his arms. Blue, black, or purple. Any shade of Saitou is welcome. It’s not one sided. Saitou’s hands press against his back, the pressure builds and builds. Palms grind at his shoulder blades, and the chips of bone Saitou catches slice away some of the ropes tugging agony behind them. Hands travel from his shoulder down each vertebrae of his spine, if Saitou reached into Shinpachi’s body any further he’d be able to draw his spine like a sword. Then they might be able to beat back some of the bitterness of change. Slay the regrets that make it hard swallow the sweetest parts of memories.

He reaches his hands into Saitou’s hair and twists until his fingers look like brushes. He could bend Saitou down to the some of the papers on the table and start to write their stories, but he’s a little more selfish than that. Keeping Saitou here is more important. Hearing his breath stop then skip quicker, rougher. Those sounds are louder. They make his ears ring too loudly to hear Shiranui mention things like _interesting guy_ or _gone._ He’s grateful for that. Grateful enough that Saitou’s palms to his chest are welcome. Normally when someone shoves him he’d knock their teeth out. Fights are fun.

This isn’t precisely a fight. Nobody is keeping track of winning or loosing. They’re using force but not malice. When his back collides with the floor it’s great. The tatami scratches at the fresh bruises Saitou left. It’s fine. He’s laughing when Saitou straddles him. The knees in his sides pinch nerves and yesterdays. Saitou leans down, the muscles in his jaw jumping a little bit. His eyes aren’t far away, they’re close enough that he can see a mirror and a lamp in them. Shinpachi wonders if the blue spark in them is the same one he had watched Souji and Heisuke burn out with. Or maybe Saitou skims it out of somewhere in himself. Isn’t fire supposed to be blue when it’s hottest?

He leans up while Saitou leans down, they manage a kiss, if you can call it that. It lacks any sort of accuracy, and his teeth bite into his lip trying to get to Saitou’s. The second try is a little smoother. Saitou’s lips slide against his and they both sigh. The contrast is nice, between their lips and the marks their fingers are leaving.

“Is this ok?” Saitou’s question hangs the moment but not the goal. All he has to do is find the words to say _yes._

“Yeah. I should be the one asking, but yeah.” It’s Saitou who has given more than anyone should have to.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” It’s not open for discussion. He can’t blame Saitou. Sometime it’s easier to forget for awhile, but neither of them really wants to forget as much as they want to channel the ache into something else. Something less corrosive. Shinpachi can manage that for Saitou.

“I’m fine with the floor, but we should move over a bit.” It would be disrespectful, not to mention painful, to end up rolling onto Souji and Heisuke’s swords or something. Although, Souji would probably laugh if that happened. The evening sun catching on the guard of Souji’s blade looks suspiciously like winking.

Heisuke would definitely chew Shinpachi out in the same tone he used when Shinpachi and Sano stuck him with Hijikata-san’s wrath. He wouldn’t be mad at Saitou though. Heisuke always had an unwavering admiration for him.

Shinpachi chuckles, and Saitou doesn’t question it. Instead he wraps his arms around Shinpachi’s waist and slots his fingers into the sensitive dips between muscles. It’s an effective way to guide him, but he takes Saitou’s wrist in exchange. Fair’s fair.

They drag each other a reasonable distance from anything they could bump into.

There’s not a lot of free space, but there’s enough. They have as much space in each other as they need for this. There are probably plenty of reasons why where they’re going and what they’re doing aren’t the recommended forms of mourning, but fuck it. This is easier than over thinking, and they’ve been doing things the hard way since the Shinsengumi began. It’s time for a break.

But even this isn’t exactly easy.

Not when Saitou’s palms press into his chest, and while those hands don’t hurt they push something like nails into him. Sharp pieces he has hanging around. If Saitou can find them all, great. Better not to have them lying around loose to bite him years down the road. It helps that he finds Saitou’s tongue with his and they manage to keep their kiss softer than their hands. Different tensions and pressures string up heavy thoughts and suspend them for awhile. They’ll snap those threads eventually, crash back down. They always do. But not this second, and a second to breathe should be enough to last a year with how they’ve learned to conserve what little they get.

His fingers curl into shoulders until he can almost grab shoulder blades, but Saitou is a bit too muscular for that. Instead of bone he’s got fabric covering ligaments and tendons under his hands, the friction of motions beneath the skin warms his palms up. Or maybe they were already warm, Saitou has that effect. Saitou has many effects if he thinks about it. He served a purpose, provided a kindness, for every one of the guys. Shinpachi’s got him now, and Saitou’s got him.

Saitou runs his fingers along Shinpachi’s jaw, slides them down to his neck where they press into his throat and pulse. Saitou’s breath cuts off and then picks back up more closely aligned with Shinpachi’s. Understanding gets taken up in their bodies because words are so hard to remember. They’re spoken and then they die, and you’re working off a memory.

Too many things have died. Bones and bloods are good archivists. Shinpachi snatches every scratch and push Saitou gives and stores it away. Maybe he’ll write a book someday, one that will try to recreate this experience. He’ll take out touch and try to assign it an inked interpretation. He’s not Saitou, and he’s not made of permanent ink. He doesn’t draw on everything he touches, but Saitou reminds him how there is something remarkable about slipping names and words onto paper.

His name, Saitou’s name, _their names._

They all have stories they left with Saitou and Shinpachi. They can use Heisuke’s ponytail as brush bristles and Sano’s spear as the body. Hijikata-san and Kondo-san’s skin would make great paper, while Souji’s eyes would be a fascinating shade for ink.

Someday he’ll give them something to be remembered by, even if Chizuru and Saitou are the only readers.

But not today.

Today is for living. Saitou is very alive. Really he is.

The knee pressing between Shinpachi’s legs bumps his thoughts around until he gasps and grabs at Saitou’s hips. This is going somewhere he hasn’t been in a while, hasn’t ever been with a man. But Saitou is a friend and comrade before he’s anything else, and trust makes it easy to go. Saitou leans down and kisses the hollow between his collar bone. His hair has grown out enough since it was cut to brush against Shinpachi’s chest. It would tickle if Saitou didn’t graze his teeth toward his throat in the same moment. Sensations kick at each other, some fall harder against him than others, but they’re all there when he returns the favor.

Rolling Saitou over is only easy because Saitou allows it to be. They give and take, control tends to go sour if the same hands hold it for too long, passing it back and forther is safer. Saitou waits, watches. He’s ready for whatever Shinpachi wants to give. They’re pushing each other, but nothing they can do to each other has enough teeth to leave the kind of scars they already have. If this leaves marks it will be the better kind. So he kisses Saitou’s neck, starting where it meets his collar bones and working his way up. There are all sorts of interesting stops along the way. Saitou’s pulse doesn’t race, but it doesn’t rest. Shinpachi presses his teeth over it, not breaking skin, but breaking Saitou’s calm. Hands curl against his stomach and scratch characters through his clothes. He can’t read it. Saitou’s nails are too dull, and the fabric is too thick.

There’s one way to fix that.

They find each other’s mouths again, it takes a lot of breath to keep this pace. The air from Saitou’s lungs tastes like blood and gunpowder. The battle at Aizu is inside his body, and this is as close as Shinpachi will get to having been there. Saitou’s teeth tug his lower lip and his back snaps into an arch that shoves Saitou’s back harder against the floor. It’s alright. Saitou is pulling out things he yelled at nobody and anybody who would listen. Nobody listened. Saitou listens.

Their clothing is opposite, Shinpachi in a sleeping yukata, Saitou still in his uniform. It comes off all the same, in tugs and yanks. Buttons are a little more complicated than ties, but Saitou’s fingers reteach his how they work. Shinpachi shrugs out of sleeves that are all too willing to let him go. Saitou’s clothes cling to him more firmly, they’re not ready to let Saitou leave the battle. More than a few seams yelp when Shinpachi yanks them off. They stink like dirt and death, and he’s surprised when Saitou’s skin underneath is mostly clean. All of the new scars are in places they can’t be seen. Sneaky bastards that crowd against Saitou’s insides but don’t give his skin any story to tell.

Saitou leans back as far as the tatami beneath him will allow, this is permission for Shinpachi to look everywhere and anywhere. He offers Saitou the same opportunity. That’s fair.

But looking starts to sting his eyes, Saitou has old scars from before he drank the ochimizu but there’s not a mark on him that suggest he _just_ survived a vicious battle. That should be a relief. But damn it all, it’s not. How much of Saitou’s life did those repairs cost? The worst part is not knowing. How expensive is a shallow cut, how many years do you pay for a stab wound? They don’t know. The only sand in a rasetsu’s hourglass comes after it’s all reached the bottom, one pile of _time’s up._ No warning before.

“Shinpachi?” Saitou grabs his shoulders and kneads at him. He’d gotten lost for a minute. Saitou’s here, so he should be too.

“Sorry.” Apologies taste funny, but that’s ok. Nothing has tasted right recently.

But he should make it up to Saitou.

Shinpachi grabs his hand and pulls it to his mouth while Saitou rubs the ball of his foot against Shinpachi’s calf. He kisses up and down Saitou’s lifeline a few times before he kisses all the way down Saitou’s wrist and forearm trying to convince that line to extend. A palm isn’t big enough to hold everything he wants Saitou to have, it’s frustration that makes him squeeze Saitou’s wrist until the first signs of bruising appear.

They fade moments after.

It startles him, there’s always been something unsettling about the way a rasetsu heals. Everything snaps and stitchs back into place with no evidence. It’s not something humans are capable of, scars are very real. He wouldn’t believe this was real if he hadn’t seen it many times by now on different rasetsu. On most it bugged him. But the way Saitou’s body won’t accept any marks is intriguing. It makes promises of survival that he knows are lies. He hates lies. Still, if they tell him Saitou will be ok he’ll swallow them for now.

He shouldn’t, because Saitou isn’t an experiment or an investigation, but he digs his nails until there’s a sliver of blood.

The scratch vanishes too. Well it doesn’t exactly _vanish_. It fades out quickly, but slow enough to remember it was once there.

“Does it bother you?” Saitou’s hand goes still on Shinpachi’s waist. Every word is neutrally placed on the center of Shinpachi’s consciousness for him to do whatever he wants with. Even Saitou’s expression evens out into a blank page, nothing to tip Shinpachi one way or the other.

Saitou knows how Shinpachi has felt about the ochimizu for a long time. It’s never been a secret. He _hated_ when Heisuke took it, but he never stopped caring about him because of it. Heisuke never stopped being human to him. The same goes for Saitou. Choosing to live, to fight. That’s hard. So while he doesn’t think he could ever make the choice they did, they still have his respect.

“Nah, you’re fine.” _You’re you._ Words return to Saitou’s face along with a vague sketch of relief. Shinpachi traces his fingers up the side of Saitou’s neck to his face.

The skin of eyelids is especially delicate under his ring finger when Saitou blinks. Shinpachi moves from his eyes down and across his nose and cheekbones, it’s not a far journey up to his forehead or back down to his jaw. The bones that make up Saitou’s features are unchanged, he’s as beautiful and steady as he has always been. But his thumb also finds lines and dips that weren’t there before. If he ran his hand over his own face he’d probably find similar imperfections. It doesn’t make Saitou any less. Shinpachi might be flirting with a sense of sentimentality when he runs his index finger over Saitou’s lips, around and around.

Motions get put on hold when Saitou grabs his wrist. The stillness is only confusing for a moment before Saitou kisses the pads of each one of his fingers. He’s curious if the ridges of his fingerprints have held onto anything. Maybe the taste of the dirt at Shieikan, or the sweat he’d wiped from Heisuke’s brow after his transformation, or the dried blood on Sano’s spear. If any of those things have gone bitter or stale on his hands Saitou doesn’t complain. There are worse things he’s sure Saitou has tasted.

Half of him wants to laugh at how easily they flow between roughly shoving each other down and around to being impossibly gentle. There are different things to be gained from both, so what if they can’t pick one? They can get tough on each other and nobody dies, nobody disappears. In the next second they can touch carefully, softly, and remind themselves how important it is to care. Shinpachi is careful not to scrape ashes from Saitou’s skin, and Saitou pushes on his ribs hard enough to ground him but not to suffocate him.

“You’re fine as well.” Saitou kisses him gently, more breath than lips. He can taste his own tears even though his face is dry. Saitou must have tasted the salt too.

“Thanks,” It’s not really anything. Too simple of a word to explain, but they’ve kept up a different kind of dialogue and it’s about time to see that through to the end. His skin is too warm, and his stomach is still coiled around something sweeter than pain.

Saitou catches the idea, or maybe it was his idea to begin with. Doesn’t matter, it’s what he does with it that interests Shinpachi. One arm wraps around his waist, while the other guides his shoulder. That’s all it takes for Saitou to roll them over. For a second or two the floor and ceiling can’t keep up with each other. Saitou’s touch reorients him. Hands trail up and down his sides, and Shinpachi knows his back must be against the floor. The lips on his collar bones remind him that the light stroking Saitou’s back must be coming from the lamp beside them. Saitou’s hands rest on his shoulders, and Shinpachi kisses Saitou’s forearms, right first then left.

They move forward from there, forward is really the only place they have to go. For as much as it feels like they’re trying to shove their bodies together, they’re really pushing each other along. Details are precious, but they bleed together now. Sounds drip from their mouths and collide with the running stream of motions and touches that travel along muscles and bones. Saitou’s hips tilt just the right way- _Oh_. It’s impossible to think straight, but he doesn’t have to think to kiss away the aches sealed in the sweat on Saitou’s neck and chest.

His hands stop scratching and prodding so that he can wrap his arms around Saitou and _hold._ It’s harder for both of them to move like this, but they manage. They’ve always managed, and the extra friction isn’t a bad thing. It blurs and smears all of those strokes that name the things they’ve been wanting to heal. If their skin turns the colors of the stories they melt into each other, that would be ok.

Counting their breaths is impossible. Do gasp count? Was that his exhale or Saitou’s? He can’t tell. His sense of sound is entirely trained on scraps of sound that fall all around his head. No single focus is possible.

His vision manages a little more control. Maybe because Saitou’s such a nice view.

He still looks tired, but there’s less pain and the flush on his cheeks chases away some of the grayness that had told him Saitou didn’t come here without loss as a companion. If nothing else, this has helped remind both of their bodies how much different life feels from goodbyes.

Shinpachi follows the shifting of shadows and light. Only Saitou would move in a way that drags sunrises and sunsets across his face, back and forth, until Shinpachi has to close his eyes because it really is too much. He yanks Saitou down for a kiss, and Saitou offers no resistance. Somehow they manage to keep kissing around the sounds that come with falling off that edge they’ve been looking over, but only now do they jump.

Saitou makes a sound that’s almost lost under his own, but he catches it anyway. It’s everything, enough to draw down his spine, scattering every definite it touches.

The first sensation that comes back into focus is in his fingertips. Saitou’s skin is still skin. There’s no pile of ash on his chest. It’s Saitou’s hair and his breath, and everything so damn human it hurts. He’s still here. It’s not exactly that Shinpachi expected him to despair, but he’s had dreams of the guys and they’re never there in the morning. Saitou is not a dream, he’s got the marks to prove it. He’s got the heartbeat against his that promises he’s not alone.

And Saitou isn’t alone either. Saitou survived, and they shared in all the implications of that.

Still he’s a little afraid to move. To wake himself up in case the moment isn’t his to keep.

Saitou has no such problem, he grabs one of Shinpachi’s hands and squeezes. That’s enough to allow time to pick itself back up from where they’d dumped it. His fingers rub at the back of Saitou’s hand, all the details are just as he remembers them. The callouses that slide against his palm and knuckles, the bones under his fingers. The grip is firm, unyielding. It’s nice to be held like letting go isn’t in the imminent future.

They readjust so they’re lying side by side. It’s Shinpachi who bumps their shoulders together, but Saitou who makes sure their joined hands end up tucked between them. Absentmindedly, his free hand traces around Saitou’s stomach and chest, he doesn’t recognize the words his fingers have learned. They’re probably all variations of _Saitou_ or _Hajime._ Or maybe he’s picking up everything Saitou learned at Aizu but hasn’t been able to speak. Those kind of words exist too. The ones you try to speak, but they get shredded up on the way out and you’re still silent. If he can learn them so Saitou doesn’t have to speak them, then that’s great. An expanded vocabulary is not a bad thing.

There are all sorts of syllables and phrases he thinks the others would have to share if they were still around. He can still remember a bunch of good ones, Saitou reminds him too. Souji’s tone for “I’ll kill you” jokes is still in Saitou’s lips. Shinpachi can feel it from where Saitou’s breath touches his neck. They can grab Hijikata-san’s “I’m only pissed because I care” voice from the point of Saitou’s hip. And they can pull Heisuke and Sano’s laughter from the insides of Shinpachi’s lungs. There’s probably some of Kondo-san in both of their hands. Yamazaki and Sannan-san are tucked away in there too. And of course Chizuru is all over every wound that has managed to hold itself closed.

Strange how intimacy with one person brings everything back around to the original ties that made that connection possible. It’s impossible to imagine a different course where he wouldn’t have met Saitou. For everything that has unraveled, the thread still leads back to the same beginning.

“Hey Saitou,” His voice drops into what he hopes is low enough not to break the sleepiness curling around them both.

“Yes?” Tired Saitou is rare. He’s always been the kind of guy to push himself harder and farther than anyone else. There were always bits of _Saitou was here_ around their headquarters. Dripped all over Hijikata-san’s organized papers, and in the cleanliness of their practice room. Saitou still leaves an imprint even when he’s fading out.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Not just alive, but right here. With him. If he’s going to spanning two times he’s glad to have Saitou around to help maintain the collection they’ve been intrusted with. Lines of poems, first words, last words, pictures and prose. Not originally theirs, but definitely no one else’s.

“When I heard you survived I came.” Saitou’s fingers tighten around his. It’s not as if Saitou couldn’t have carved himself a new place. He’s plenty sharp for that. But Shinpachi understands.

“You saved me and Chizuru the trouble of tracking you down.” He won’t mention the stories they’d heard that nobody else survived. Chizuru’s jaw would clench and she would insist nobody was dead until they _knew_ for sure. Somehow, Shinpachi’s not sure he would have had the strength to go digging for all their ends. War is war, and he’s read enough of those books.

But Saitou found him. Saitou had been strong enough to look even after everything he must’ve gotten in his eyes.

“Of course.” Saitou doesn’t need to elaborate. There aren’t any questions to be answered. If the positions had been reversed, if he’d been the one with friends to carry home and battles to bleed into memories he would have gone directly towards any signs of the kind of home they knew.

It’s the natural response. To go where you know you’ll find some form of comfort.

They’re still a mess, lying on Shinpachi’s floor without so much as proper blankets or pillows, but neither gives any indication of moving. Separating after everything that has been torn out and drawn over would be too difficult. They’re just now binding back together everything they know.

Tucking Saitou closer into his side helps with warmth, and also with knowledge. Every inch of Saitou tells his nerves what he missed, and what he is so damn lucky to have. Saitou drapes an arm over him, and it’s funny because Saitou has never been the clingly type. This isn’t really dependence though, it’s not that feeling of an existence waiting to be wrecked by separation. It’s defiant in a quietly Saitou way. _I’m alive and I’m keeping him, her, them._ They can keep each other, Chizuru, memories.

No battle or epilogue can take that from them.

Some inscriptions are impossible to erase.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday lightningwaltz!! 
> 
> \---
> 
> Although this was painful to write, I also really enjoyed exploring this relationship within the context of the relationships they share with the others. Shinpachi is admittedly a bit harder for me to write than Heisuke or Saitou, but I really love him and this was fun :D


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